“Everybody has heard your promise,” was Nick’s rejoinder. “Now, bring out this monster of yours, and I will see how much my chance of victory is worth.”
Nick Carter threw up his spear in salute and strode to the middle of the arena.
A faint cheer arose from the packed seats of the common people. It was not very loud, because there was general awe of Calaman and his associates, but it had burst forth involuntarily.
Here was a man, for the first time in some fifty years, brave enough to accept the challenge of the Golden Scarab.
He was entitled to a cheer, and he got it. But there were few in that vast assemblage who expected to see the valiant American leave the place alive.
The gates clanged, and, amid a deathly silence—as if all those thousands of people were holding their breath in unison—the gigantic beetle came darting out, bristling for the fray.
Nick Carter was an adept in the use of the spear, as he was with all other weapons.
Naturally quick to pick up anything demanding great dexterity, he had soon learned to swing and stab with a spear as skillfully as Jai Singh himself.
He had taken his first lessons years before. But he had done better than that. Since he had been in India this time, he had placed himself under the tutelage of Jai Singh, and had learned all the newer tricks that had been acquired by the great Indian spearman himself.
The detective stood his ground as his hideous foe approached. His spear was ready to leap forward, seeking a vital part at any instant.